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Xarxas Shadowshaper
'''Xarxas the Shadowshaper '''was a very powerful necromancer in the Third war, and a great Archmage of Dalaran before that. Personality Xarxas, formerly known as Barthen, was very open and an often used figurehead for a child. Despite being an often stressed archmage, he still had enough time to care for his social life and whatnot. His surname, Chantshaper, came from the affinity of arcane magic in his family. He was able to create various combinations of spells so quickly and efficiently, that they were unable to be compared to other spells. This took around various weeks at most, in comparison to most other human spellweavers. That changed when he drifted to the Cult of the Damned. The once very kind and polite man turned into a rude aberration that barely did anything outside of his home and only occupied himself with his newfound spells. He was shunned by society as he was discovered to temper with the undead, and eventually vanished. He changed his name and became a heavy schemer under the Scourge. Appearance Xarxas has a great beard and long hair, mottled and messy. He always seems to wear his skull-hat and his green robes, indicating his position of power under his soldiers. His once weary and human face became pale, his eyes started glowing bright green and emitted flares of magical flames, harmless to anyone. His favorite staff is a great longstaff with a hand-like object attached ontop, holding the orb of power he uses. At the sides are two small wings that appear to flap at occasions. He once was an acolyte, too. Unholy Heralds of the Plaguelands Xarxas Shadowshaper, once an arch mage of Dalaran, is now a renowned soldier amongst the Scourge’s ranks. Having survived both the first and second wars by assisting the kingdom of Lordaeron, Xarxas was soon convinced by the masses of the cultists and Kel’Thuzad, indirectly, to join the Cult of the Damned. Temptation was great to test out this peculiar force known as “necromancy”. Xarxas was first sent out to the glades of Lordaeron, known as the noxious glades by its inhabitants, the nerubian soldiers. Some, sent out to aid Arthas in Quel’Thalas, were absent. Others were inside the glades, working heavily to construct Ziggurats and great towers of damnation. Of course, it only ended up as a small outpost of the Scourge, as the Paladins of Lordaeron had started to create guard towers for assaults on the Scourge forces. Xarxas was smart, though, and knew that the Paladins couldn’t see the shades he could send out. However, the necrolord knew that assaulting the temple directly would only cause reinforcements to come. He sent a shade out forward to the small expeditionary outpost just west of the guard tower, and then assaulted it with the help of a small elite force he calls the Heralds of the Unholy. He called up two of his men, a necromancer and a rogue, to kill the soldiers one-by-one before casting a main assault that would send the camp to its doom. The leader, now known as a simple undead paladin, was taking over the camp after Xarxas and his men moved on to Northpass Tower. He called forward various soldiers, multiple Death Knights, one of them Otto Justinus, a renowned paladin who was raised into undeath by Arthas Menethil. The soldiers attacked with fierce zeal and pride. In the background, the thundering engines roared and were ready to fire the plague barrels against the guardsmen on the tower. It waited patiently as Otto continued slaughtering guardsmen; He impaled them, struck them down and beheaded them and corrupted them. The undead soldiers rising from their graves along were only enough to serve the man’s cause. Now stomping inside, the group found a singular paladin geared in golden–black robes and a hood, armed with an infused great sword. The Death Knight, Otto, charged forward after dismounting and fired his sword down onto the blade, getting parried by the paladin’s blade. Various hits were avoided and smashed against his pauldrons, those falling off. Eventually, the knight pushed the soldiers away and started channelling holy magic in order to banish the vile undead. Otto charged forward and interrupted his spell, while the two finished the paladin off. Xarxas relished in victory and quickly set up a perimeter for the Scourge’s forces. The set up took around a week and ended up with a great fortress, burning flags and undead hordes ready to attack. Xarxas was already plotting the attack on the Quel’Lithien lodge, which was in the northern region of the now known Plaguelands. The Lodge After roughly two and a half weeks of planning and preparing, the soldiers, with the new addition of Rallen, a shadow priest, moved to the lodge and found it to be surprisingly empty. The group of soldiers moved along the way before Xarxas’ trusty apprentice, Drethund, had found a peculiar object; a scroll of elven nature. Upon approaching it, the group found itself trapped in a magical prison. Elven yelling is heard in the background as the soldiers and magi maintain the bubble, and keep it strong. Another man, quite a bit unusual looking, enters the fray. An elven battle mage named Dori’than Valmar. The man commanded the army and silently laughed: “You brought yourself into this mess, necromancer. Now you can burn in hell with your kin.” Dori’than walked off and inspected the tower in flames. Silent hissing is heard in the background, along with hyena-like laughter before the two mages maintaining the prison were torn open by vicious geists. The prion vanished into a violet mist. More soldiers stomped along, the wooden floor reverbing the noise as more elven yelling can be heard. The men and women lined up before cutting down the geists. Xarxas laughed, turned around and told his soldiers to deal with the elven men. As the order was given, multiple yells in Gutterspeak, Thalassian and even Common can be heard. The orc warrior Garm’argal rushed forward and broke the shield wall with ease, before the rest of the soldiers started attacking. Rallen supported his allies with a wicked field of desecrated arcane magic, as Drethund used the opportunity to shred open one of his enemies with a death coil. The elven men fell, and the horsemen dismounted before running in. Xarxas fired two shadow bolts, each hitting the riders. They fell down, gurgling up blood as their respiratory systems failed to support them. Dori’than turned, grinning. He had a bigger beard than the other elves. It moved along his jawline and ended at stylized sideburns. He instantly took his blade out and yelled: “You’ll die by my hand, then!” Dori’than charged to Xarxas, who simply pushed him back and ran into his group. “Kill him!” he yelled. The soldiers charged forward and slashed against him, barely harming him with his enchanted armor and weaponry. The elven man was about to summon an arcane explosion, if it wasn’t for a great bomb to suddenly fly up: A plague canister was launched from below, hitting Dori’than with a shockwave and its contents. He fell, shuddering heavily and vomiting his own blood out. Soon enough, the man rose again as a shambling corpse. The lodge was taken for the Scourge. “We will not use this as a headquarters,” Xarxas said. He turned to the group, as the dead elven general slowly shambled away “The elven part of the Scourge shall take this as their small headquarters.” He ordered the soldiers to leave, and then left himself to return to the tower. Drethund carefully pushed himself past the great wall of men and walked to Xarxas. He raised his voice slightly, pondering: “Master, where shall we move now?” Xarxas turned to Drethund, setting a hand on his shoulder. “We shall move to the great Eversong Forest. There, we will take over the Andilien Estate.” Drethund smiled wickedly and turned around after Xarxas removed his hand. The necromancer in charge of the group grumbled silently and stroked his beard. With a loud yell he commanded a shade to come. Dark mists rose from the ground as a ghostly image of a being appears next to him. It echoes out: “Yes, my lord?” Xarxas moved his finger to the map. He pointed to an estate. He then spoke with a hoarse and silent voice: “Scout this area. I want all possible information you can gather, every single minute detail.” The shade bowed itself and vanished into the shadows. Andilien Estate Two weeks pass. The shade hastily shifts through the shadows. “My liege!” the shade yells, as Xarxas turns around. The necromancer has a very stressed and displeased expression. The shade hesitated, and then spoke: “I have but bad news, my liege. Andilien Estate is covered with mage investigators and a mage-priest. Are you sure you wish to do this, my lord?” Xarxas turned his frown into a grin, turning around. A wicked laughter escaped his rotten mouth: “Of course, shade. We will destroy these mongrel elves and use them as cannon fodder.” The shade, still hesitant, bowed its head and vanished. Hours later, a horn is sounded at the top of the tower. The elite group, still composed of Rallen, Otto, Drethund, Grey Bones, Garm’argal and Ra’zagul, moved to the tower’s entrance. The gate opened, revealing Xarxas in his arachnothid-silken robes. “We will move out. I prepared steeds. Mount up.” The man stepped along and hopped on his skeletal horse. “We will destroy Andilien Estate, owned by lord Andilien and take it over.” The men rode off. Roughly two hours later, the men arrive at the Thalassian Pass. Great blue silk banners wave about, their sigil being a runeblade crossed with two broken hammers. “Lord Xarxas!” a man shouted. He was veiled in black and purple robes. They had various ornaments stitched into them. “Glad to see that you could come, my lord. Andilien Estate is occupied by detectives of Silvermoon. Someone was murdered in there. They are most likely distracted.” Xarxas grinned once again. He nodded, and then dismounted. “Gear up and gather some weapons here, soldiers. We will move out in –ten- minutes.” After ten minutes, the men moved out again to the estate. Roughly half an hour of walking was reduced to ten more minutes on horse and wolf. The area was secured with death posts and barricades. A shield with a skull was put in front, saying “STAY OUT!” Xarxas frowned again: “Loud or silent?” He turned to his group, the orc man stomping forward and breaking the barricade with a few well-placed hits. Garm’argal stomped on and roared out. He charged forward to the elven men, who instantly sent various magical bolts into his armor, denting it only in a minor way. He started chopping down on one of the elves, Drethund taking out the other. Otto charged in, trampling another before moving on to a crying, frustrated man. He raised his sword, aiming to chop him down; alas, the man vanished! “Damn it!” yells Otto, as the footsteps are heard outside. Xarxas frowned. “Do not bother. I want this area fortified.” He mounted up and rode off, then returned half an hour later with various allies, fortified objects carried by a pack animal and siege weapons. Four riders joined him as well, those taking place next to the siege weapons. “Three of these four catapults will go to Zul’Aman. The death knights here will pillage the city,” Xarxas says. He moved to the magically suspended book table and started writing again. Tranquillien's End A week later of preparations, the men were drummed together. Somebody was missing this time – Grey Bones. Xarxas shrugged the pointless man’s missing in action off and started explaining: “Today, we shall start the onslaught on Tranquillien Village! This will prove to be a first stronghold of us, supported by lord Dar’khan Drathir! Mount up and ride with me, soldiers!” The undead archmage stomped towards his horse and mounted up. The rest followed on, as he whipped the reins and let it charge forward. The men arrived roughly twenty minutes later, and then were greeted by various officers and necrolytes. “Lord Xarxas,” one of them said “we have waited for you. Every necessary precaution was taken. Plague catapults are ready and the ghouls are also standing. We created a great abomination in case anything may backfire.” The men behind Xarxas grumbled slightly. Garm’argal was thirsty for blood. Drethund carefully stepped about, mumbling words in an unintelligible language as he tried to memorize various unholy chants. The others, Otto especially, gazed at the abomination with vague interest and awe. It smashed through the wall of spellbreakers with ease and nearly ravaged the rangers behind them. The men dashed forward, aiding the being before a loud, reverbing hiss came from the roosts. A gigantic stone golem, powered by arcane magic, stomped forward and rammed its rock hard fist into the abomination. It sank in, green goo oozing and squirting out. The abomination roared, pushing the robotic being forward and down, into the ground. It yelled out a second time as it rammed its fists, hooks and chains into the crystals, those breaking with a volley of arcane magic flying into the sky. The unholy apparition growled and turned around, stomping into various others. The elven men increased in numbers rapidly as they tried to defend the town, before a watery, gurgling hiss is heard. Moments later, a wooden barrel pops in the middle of the square, on top of the statues and spills a green fluid – the Plague – onto the elves. They writhed, vomited blood and tried crawling away as their living tissue slowly withered away into rotten skin and meat. Some began whimpering, yelling out and even crying before they ended up becoming ash-like zombies, slowly standing up and shambling about. Half an hour passes as the reinforcements finally are beaten back. A small army of soldiers stands, shambles and feeds on the corpses. Xarxas steps to a magical barrier, conjured by an elven mage inside the town hall. He starts yelling out words in the same language Drethund practiced, before the barrier exploded into violet energy. The woman gained a violet chain around her neck as she was lifted up, choking and gurgling. The room was filled with elven refugees and survivors. Garm’argal stomped forward. “Kill her,” said Xarxas, before the orc rammed his hammer into her skull, crushing it. She fell to the ground, motionless. The soldiers moved on upstairs as they found various untrained and unarmed elves attempting to defend themselves – Without avail. Xarxas raised his hand as a gesture, as the elves suddenly withered up, choked and gurgled up saliva; a spell, clearly. He stepped forward, finding the young, blonde elf from Andilien Estate. “Lord Andilien, I assume!” Xarxas yelled out. The elven man was channeling a spell to an orb of translocation, then yelled back in a furious tone: “Leave me be, you monstrosities! I will rip your bodies apart if need be!” He turned around, pushing forward a wave of arcane energies. Xarxas raised a barrier and guarded himself, as the rest ran to cover. Garm’argal attempted to slam his hammer into him, but was suddenly pushed back by a bolt of magic. The elf appeared empowered as Rallen tried to silence him, failing as well. The men saw no other reason to spare the man before Drethund raised his staff, ramming it down into his skull. He pulled his dagger out and started to violently stab him down. The Elf jolted slightly with every stab, slowly amassing blood in his mouth. His eyes close as he withers into the darkness. A Geist, Plagueleaper, quickly leapt up and hissed out words: “Master! We heard the call of victory… Is it time?” Xarxas grinned, and then spoke: “Send the soldiers from Andilien to this town, then get to the Thalassian Pass and gather some fortifications to get here.” Plagueleaper nodded like a servant and dashed off. Xarxas destroyed the orb of translocation and set down writing material on the table. He started writing his next plans. Farstriders' Fall Not even a week passed. Xarxas rolled up his scroll and gazed out the terrace. Drethund stumbled by, raising a finger: “Master, what is this strange contraption on the building? Is it an altar?” Xarxas turned his head to the man, grinning. “No, Drethund. Come," he moved along, continuing to talk, “this skull is the skull of lord Andilien, the man we killed when we took over this town. His very bones shiver with energy, especially his skull. You, my apprentice, will take the energy.” Drethund looked at Xarxas warily. “Are you sure?” he said, furrowing a brow. Xarxas emitted a short, silent chuckle. “Of course, Drethund, I want you to do that now. Siphon its power and you will be one step closer to the gift of eternal life.” Drethund nodded, slowly stepping to the altar. He stopped at the base as Otto rode over with his steed. “Are you going to give all the power to the apprentice?” he pondered, glaring slightly at the undead necromancer. Xarxas grunted. “Yes, I will give it to him,” he was interrupted by Otto, who instantly counter asks: “And what of the supporter, Rallen?” Xarxas grumbled. “He does not need it. I am here to assure Drethund learns, not that everyone gets a share of magical energies. He supports, not fights.” Drethund raised his staff, whispering silent and unintelligible words as a stream of violet energy connected staff to skull. Seconds later, Drethund groans as the energy fills his very bones, slowly ending the chant as the skull falls to the pile, and cracks open. It slowly shifts apart into dust. “Now,” Xarxas said, “it is time.” He stomped down the building and took forward a horn, sounding it. Seconds later he started yelling: “Assemble in front of the town hall!” After half a minute, everybody arrived. “We shall overtake the Farstrider Retreat today, gentlemen!” Some raised their weapons into the sky, cheering in wild impatience. “For the Scourge!” they yelled. Xarxas calmed them with a gesture, lowering his hand. “Mount up and follow me!” He stepped to his horse, mounting up and whipping the reins slightly, walking over to the walkway before halting his horse, some on steeds, others on risen hawkstriders and wolves. Almost a day passed before they arrived. Xarxas halted his steed and dismounted. “Hop off. It’s time to break them.” He moved along, spotting a terrace. Raising his head, he yelled: “You must be the commander of the forces here!” The elven man knelt down, chuckling. “Come on, Scourge filth! We can break you as easily as we broke the trolls!” Xarxas shook his head as he laughed evilly, moving on. As he reached the entrance, two rangers raised their shortbows, aiming to fire against the group of undead. Garm’argal, once again, charged forward and sliced one of the men’s head off, as the other tried to run. He was intercepted by Drethund, who cursed the man with a shadow bolt. He hunched over, vomiting out his own blood as he fell down completely, jittering a few seconds more before dying off. Ra’zagul, in the back, had already prepared a spell to break the barricade. Seconds later, Xarxas steps away before it violently blows open. Inside are various elven refugees, all crying and scared. “They’d meet their end one way or another! Kill them!” Xarxas yells out, before a group of elven rangers assembles and raises their bows. They fired enchanted arrows, those digging into Garm’argal armor and pushing him back heavily. Almost falling over, he pulled himself together and charged onward with his shield raised, as he rammed him away and crushed his skull. Drethund and Rallen both started channeling together in order to corrupt two of the five, those falling down and withering away. Thom, a new death knight addition, rams his hand forward as a plague sweeps across the room and corrupts one of the two final elven rangers standing. He coughed, vomited and jittered heavily before falling down, lying in his own bloodied vomit. He slowly rose once again and shambled against some of the elven refugees, feeding on them. Blood squirts out of the jugular of one of the women as she falls, crying in pain before eventually dying down. Thom raised his hands again, yelling out unknown words as the other elves slowly fall and turn into undead themselves. They slowly shamble out collectively and aimlessly go to the Dead Scar. Xarxas assembled his men and walked to the terrace, raising his hand. The two elven guards suddenly fell to their knees and choked heavily, twitching and falling to their sides. They were strangulated by magical means. The elven troll hunter turns, instantly nocking an arrow and firing at Xarxas. Multiple arrows flew into him as he fell to his knees, arms opened. Seconds later he stood up, raising his hand. “Kill him.” The man tried going for another arrow, widening his eyes in fear as he had none left. Garm’argal raised both hands and violently grabbed his throat, holding it for a few seconds before cleanly ripping his head off. Blood squirts onto the orc’s helmet before he goes to his knees. The elven woman next to him slowly knelt down and began to sob. A moment passed before her head fell down the terrace as well. “I will make the necessary fortifications. You can move about and do what you wish,” Xarxas said as he moved to another table, took out his writing utensils and opened a clean scroll. Falconwing Square's Fall Xarxas set his utensils down a week later. Loud fighting could be heard from the gates of Silvermoon, those being miles away. Xarxas turned around and raised his staff, slamming it down. “Come, soldiers!” he yelled, as his elite group assembled. A cultist rushed into the Retreat as he called the men. “Lord Xarxas,” the man explained, “I am Methusaleth, a necromancer of the Cult. I was told to come here for your—for your services.” He coughed. He was exhausted, evidently. Xarxas turned, grumbling. “You shall prove your worth here and now. Come, soldiers! Mount up!” Xarxas rushed to his steed and waited for the rest to come. Thirty seconds passed. The man grimaced as he charged forward. Roughly five minutes pass as they arrived at the great Dead Scar, finding Arthas Menethil himself triumphing over the destruction of the first gate. Sylvanas was struggling with her strength as she retreated. Xarxas chuckled and moved on, finding the gates to the Falconwing Square sealed by soldiers, rangers and spellbreakers. All attempts were made by the fighters, alas to no avail. The men stepped back. Loud thumps were heard in the background. Soon enough, an angered groan could be felt as well as a strained and bloated abomination stomped through the path. The elves struggled as they saw the being. Seconds later, it charged forward and slammed into the wall with ease, exploding violently seconds later. A great wall of plagued mist covered the entire short hallway. Inside the square, only a few citizens were seen. They glanced about but failed to see the group of undead. Xarxas raised a hand, and then spoke: “Wait here.” He gestured about with his hand before his appearance changed to that of a young, worn elf. “Attack when the ranger falls.” The necromancer sneaked forward and twirled his staff, presenting the sharp end – A soul-stealing gem. “We must stick together, else we will ALL fall! Trust me, friends--” The motivating words were cut off by the man behind. His words turned into a gurgling hiss before the ranger fell to his knees, aging rapidly into a rotten corpse. The soldiers charged forward and raised their weapons, slamming them into the citizens before they could escape. Horrified screams turned into silent pleads for mercy before they all fell. There was an inn nearby. Xarxas nodded and gestured for the soldiers to come along, stopping at the entrance. He coughed in an obvious and loud tone. Some people tilted their heads towards the entrance as Xarxas pushed the curtains away: “Hello, friends! I’d love some damned tea around this area!” The soldiers swarmed in and slaughtered every single one of the people below. Thom, the new addition, tried killing the barkeep. She hid underneath the bar and presented a dagger, attempting to slam it into his forehead. Alas, to no avail. The woman was struck by a hammer and fell to the side with a broken rib, coughing up blood due to the corruption slowly spreading within. Thom raised his weapon and crushed her head with his hammer, ending her with a loud cracking noise; her brains splattered across the floor and blood shot out of her now exposed neck. “Quit yer’ sniveling’!” the dwarf says, stomping along. Garm’argal found a single cook upstairs. He raised his sword and cut his head clean off. It fell into a basket. The men moved along to a barricaded building. Xarxas gestured the men to move along as he chanted low words. Seconds later, the barricade violently exploded in entropic fires. Xarxas stepped inside, finding a single man brandishing a spear. “Don’t come closer, scum! I’ll kill you all if I have to!” Xarxas laughed. He knew the man couldn’t fight. “Kill him,” the necromancer said, stepping back. Garm’argal stomped forward and, as the man tried impaling him with his spear, grabbed it and pulled him close. He held the elf by his neck and intensified his grip, snapping it. The elf went limp. A loud explosion echoed through the woodlands. “The second gate is broken,” Xarxas said. “It is time to behold the rebirth of Kel’Thuzad.” As the men walked through the Dead, empty Scar, they found a great pathway of ice, reaching through a few hundred miles towards the isle of Quel’Danas. “Mount up,” the necromancer said as he went to his steed and rode over. The Sunwell They arrived at the Sunwell’s grove just early enough. The magical well churned heavily. Xarxas stood in the distance and gazed in awe as the well slowly shifted into a dark violet color, spinning like a maelstrom of magical shadows before various explosions rumbled through the island. From the depths below, a skeleton, dripping with violet, glowing liquid, rose and yelled out as the liquid manifested into wicked, black clothing and ornaments around its body. There were no legs. “I am reborn, as promised!” the being yells. It was Kel’Thuzad, as a lich. “At last,” Xarxas said, “I have seen a necromancer’s power incarnate.” He smiled widely in awe. Eventually, the Sunwell churned again. Loud rumbles are heard from below. Kel’Thuzad and Arthas were only seen behind a magical cloud before vanishing behind a billow of smoke. The men quickly mounted up and rode off to the City again. The Goblet Garm’argal stopped. He gazed towards the others behind himself, grumbling. “What of the Goblet?” he pondered, gazing to Xarxas. “Ah, yes.” The old, undead man dismounted and beckoned the group over. He quickly slid forward a map. He gestured to the Murder Row. After moving through, they found a spiraling stairway down to a hideout of what appears to be a warlock. The man’s skeleton lying on the ground was a human’s, clearly. A felhound was gnawing on the skeleton’s bones. It growled out as it saw the group with its small, white eyes. Drethund, ordered to kill it, raised his hands and conjured a black ball of shadows, firing it for the otherworldly being. As it advanced, two blue beams fired from the felhound’s antennae and impacted the bolt with great power, letting it explode in a blue miasma. The men stumbled back, before Garm’argal raised his swords and decapitated the being. He stomped forward, finding a book. It was a book of dark chants in Eredun, speaking of summoning felhounds. A note was lying about next to the skeleton. Xarxas picked it up, grimacing as he read. “Finally, I finally discovered the summoning of felhounds! This one looks incredibly feisty… I should banish it before it gets out of hand.” Grumbling, the men moved on to the Farstriders’ Square, finding a great, closed building. The soldiers moved through a discovered hallway, hidden away behind a few crates. It led to a basement. Coins were heard falling and getting picked up. The men stepped quicker, finding a lone servant picking up a few coins. Garm’argal stepped forward and decapitated him, blood spurting outward to the coins. Xarxas bent down and picked up a goblet. He looked at it, grumbling. “I sense a lot of magical energy in this goblet. Perhaps it is the one you mean.” Garm’argal nodded, pointing to the statues of gold. “Try it out. Try heating the statue.” After a few swirls of the Goblet, it suddenly caused the statue to combust and melt. Seconds later, it froze with more gestures of Xarxas. “Let us return. This will be a great item for our benefactors.” The men returned to the Farstrider Retreat after a few hours of travelling. Xarxas, however, had a message delivered by a servant. Archimonde “Lord Xarxas!” a cultist shouted. “We are ordered to move to Alterac, on the orders of the prince himself!” Xarxas grumbled. “Prepare our most skilled mages. We can’t waste time travelling.” Roughly thirty minutes later, the group of twenty mages was set together on the plateau. They stood in a circle, chanting lowly while Xarxas stood in the middle, his hands raised. A great, violet to white glowing orb swirled in his hands. All of them chanted low words in a wicked, unknown language. Runes drawn on the ground began to glow in a wicked purple color. Eventually, the old necromancer moved his hands down to the center of the plateau’s runes, creating a violent sounding hum. With more chants escaping his mouth, he summoned a great portal. It showed a faint glimmer of the Alterac plains. Xarxas sounded his well-cared for horn before his soldiers arrived. “Come, soldiers! We’re going to Alterac Valley!” He stepped through, vanishing in a blue cloud of smoke. The men arrived in the Blackrock camp of Alterac. Siege weapons and forces were set up already. An ogre armored heavily, growls angrily. “Kur’ush smashes you!” he yells. After everyone arrived, Xarxas prepared his plans and moved forward. “Otto, you will lead this assault. You have two plague catapults and four death knights at your disposal. Use the necrolytes for support.” He handed Otto the plans of the camp and nodded. The ogre grew angrier and angrier with every moment. Xarxas supported the men from behind. Otto charged forward and sliced the ogre’s leg, forcing it to the ground. The being roared angrily, but was shut up by Thom’s mighty hammer slammed into its face. The ogre’s skull fractured, shoving a piece of his bone into his brain. Blood spurted out of the hole in his head. The ogre struggled for a few moments, but then fell. A Blackrock orc talking to a sorcerer suddenly took out a dagger and stabbed him down. Plagueleaper dashed upwards and found the man to bow. “My life for the Scourge.” He stepped down and rushed to the camp. A plague catapult took down a crowd of soldier amassing at the death posts before driving forward, pushing them into the ground. Three warlocks stepped forward, channeling to empower a fel orc Blademaster assisting a Blackrock orc, also a Blademaster. He shouted in orcish: “I am Jubei’Thos, and I will kill you!” The Blackrock orc charged forward and went to attack Thom, who extended his hand and filled his body with a wicked plague that fed itself to the outside. The man fell, groaning and vomiting his own blood out before he rolled to his back. His chest slowly ripped open, showing his now destroyed ribcage and rotting intestines. The fel orc, however, was smarter. He dashed forward with immense speed, slicing into Otto’s horse and moving to Plagueleaper, managing to cut his chest open. The being roared angrily and went to attack him, alas to no avail. The orc shoved him back and roared, before he sent his blade to the ground, creating a mirror image of himself. The image stomped towards Otto and Thom, occupying them before Plagueleaper leaped at the other one, grounding him and ripping him open with his claws. “DIE!” he yelled. They moved on. A set of warriors and warlocks were waiting up ahead. The plague catapults reared back and fired both canisters, slamming them into the groups and killing them. The warlocks occupying the great portal turned and started to chant a wicked spell of felfire towards the undead. “We will not fail our demon masters!” they all chanted loudly in Eredun. Thom roared out dwarven words and extended his arms, firing forward a wave of corruption that stopped their chanting and weakened them. Otto dashed forward and sliced the orcs down, killing them. Arthas arrived and gazed to the mess. He spoke: “The brutes have been slain,” Arthas spat. “The demon gate is yours, lich.” The skeletal form shivered with delight, floating forward and lifting his arms imploringly. Steps led up to the archway; Arthas noticed that the lich did not ascend any of them. He stood at the bottom, out of respect—or out of a more pragmatic desire to avoid harm. Arthas hung back, watching intently from atop Invincible. “I call upon thee, Archimonde! Your humble servant seeks an audience!” The green mist continued to swirl. Then, Arthas realized he could make out a shape—features—that were both like and unlike the dreadlords he was more familiar with. A great being stomped outwards to the two. It was an Eredar. Mottled, gray skin covered him, and green glowing eyes replaced the usual blue and faint glow. He carried great ornaments, showing his rank. He finally spoke: “You call upon my name, puny lich, and I have come. You are Kel’Thuzad, are you not?” The lich shivered, grinning. “Yes, great one. I am the summoner.” Archimonde grumbled, and then nodded: Very well, then. There is a special tome you must find... the only remaining spellbook of Medivh, the Last Guardian. Only his lost incantations are powerful enough to bring me into your world.” Kel’Thuzad shivered at the great, deep rumble of a voice. He bowed his skeletal head and spoke in a meek, questioning tone: “Where should we search for it, great one?” Archimonde gazed briefly at the group behind the two, Xarxas marching up and gazing in awe. The demon lowered his head again, then spoke: “Seek out the mortal city of Dalaran. It is that the tome is kept. At twilight, three days from now, you will begin the summoning.” Kel’Thuzad nodded. The image disappeared and the lich summoned a great mist around Arthas and himself before vanishing in it. “You have done a great deed, Otto, just like you all. You will become a great commander in due time.” Xarxas stroked his beard. “We shall move to the ruined town of Strahnbrad. This will be our next base of operations.” They arrived roughly six hours later and set up a base of operations. A nerubian skittered along with a great obelisk on a chariot, this one pulled by a worker. “Great Xarxas, we have brought you a utensil for the control of this base.” Xarxas nodded. “Set it down and explain it in due time.” Xarxas pulled forward a few items and set them down onto a podium in the Town Hall. A shade came by. “We may have complications, lord.” Xarxas raised his head, visibly displeased. “What? Complications? Speak, shade!” The misty form shuddered in mild fear. “We have found a mage tower nearby. It is filled with soldiers. If we assault it, we mayn’t assault Dalaran in time.” Xarxas grumbled heavily and lowered his head. “I will get to that in time. You shall wait.” The Fall of Dalaran It was a snowy, cold afternoon. The sun was blocked out by clouds. Soldiers slowly came back to Strahnbrad, relayed from the Blackrock outpost. Plagueleaper hissed out a few words, slurred greetings. “Greetings-… Master.” He appeared as always, albeit covered in small, distinct specks of snow. Eventually, most soldiers arrived. All of those necessary, to say the least. Xarxas gestured them along. “Come, soldiers.” The group moved to the Town Hall and stopped in the great room while Xarxas stepped up the stairs, to a great tome. “A ruined hall? Why are we here?” Garm’argal asked. Xarxas huffed; a distinct sound of irritation. “You will gain your orders here for the time we stay in this town.” Xarxas coughed silently into his fist, shivering faintly. He turned a great page and started reading. “Today is the day of the Siege of Dalaran, friends. Sadly, you will not partake in it.” The group let out a few displeased groans, sounds and gestures. “However,” Xarxas suddenly spoke, raising his thin finger “you shall instead attack a tower of mages. There are runners inside; Runners from Lordaeron, Stromgarde and Dalaran. Shades reported a great magical artifact inside, as well. I want you to gather it and bring it back.” Xarxas gestured his hands about as he started hissing out a few words in his peculiar tongue. An arcane aura surrounded him. “I will see you soon.” The soldiers saluted. Xarxas vanished in a blue glow, appearing at the gates of Dalaran, along with the army of soldiers just behind him. Arthas spoke in the front: “Wizards of the Kirin Tor! I am Arthas, first of the Lich King's death knights! I demand that you open your gates and surrender to the might of the Scourge!” All this talk appeared completely nonsensical to Xarxas. He was already plotting his way throughout the entire city. After he heard Antonidas speak about the erection of destructive auras, Xarxas widened his eyes. His expression turned into a frown. He looked around and tried to find a way to bypass these auras. He started stepping back and forth. The entire army stood outside, anticipating a fight. Arthas ran inside like a bloodlusty orc, and eventually Xarxas felt the aura vanish. He raised his head, cheering with the others. The entire army charged forward, pushing itself through the gates. The remaining mages stood in defense, trying to beat them back. Xarxas raised his staff, charging up a vile beam of dark energy as he took care of two of these ten mages, while the rest of the army quite literally trampled them over. The auras slowly vanished with Arthas’ advance, and the army spread out through Dalaran. Xarxas stumbled into an inn. Various mages and warriors held themselves guarded up as the necromancer walked in. Raising his brow, the necromancer eventually murmured in an echoing tone. “What?” The group of humans was confused. Seconds later, Xarxas gestured his staff forward as a great horde of ghouls stormed the inn, ripping the shields off of the guards and the eyes out of the mages. The remainder was a bloody spectacle. Xarxas stepped upwards and was greeted with a firebolt to his beard. It caught on fire. Xarxas suddenly yelped out, not wanting to lose his only sigil of being wise enough to lead the Heralds. He sent out a mighty wave of cold air around him, dousing the flames away. The mage was silenced with Xarxas’ vile counterspell before he started beating her down with his staff. “Never, -ever- assault my beard, you deluded WENCH!” The man eventually beat the woman’s head down into a bloody pulp. Then, he raised his arm as the corpse levitated upwards before it started to jitter and shiver heavily, being infused with dark magic. A headless zombie was born. It shambled around aimlessly. The man stepped on, finding the armies surrounding a small chokepoint. Xarxas quickly rushed down and pushed himself past. He raised his voice: “Come out and surrender, else you shall suffer like your families have!” The respond was silence. “Alright,” Xarxas uttered. “Break the door down!” Soldiers immediately charged against the reinforced door until it broke, then rushed into the building – Another inn – like swarms of insects. Seconds later, the horrifying screams were reduced to silence. Xarxas could still hear someone crying. He let the rest run out to attack and destroy, as he alone slowly moved in. He was greeted by a poisoned arrow to his chest – His left side. Hissing in anger, he fell to his knee and was kicked in the head, losing his skull-headpiece. It was an elf. An elf in his late teen-age. He already nocked another arrow. “You deserve true death, you disgusting mongrel.” Xarxas pleaded and begged for mercy: “Please! I am just a poor necromancer! I know a way out!” The elf lowered his bow, but kept the arrow nocked. Xarxas suddenly grinned, sending out a vile amount of arcane energy, condensed into electric bolts right for the elf. He fell back, screaming in pain as he was eventually reduced to ashes. The necromancer stood up shakily, pulled the arrow out and looked around. He was dazed. Hissing, he’d take out his trusty dagger and ripped open a part on his chest – The part that the arrow impacted. He created a fist-sized hole and ripped his heart out, which looked quite healthy for a rotten heart. It was poisoned. The meek remainder of his blood caused him to be dazed. Shaking his head, he’d throw the heart onto the charred corpse and moved along. He checked through the banks, shops and homes before finding a single mage. It was a long-lost comrade of his – Aethen, his former colleague. “It’s disappointing to-.. To see you like this, Xarxas!” He sent out a bolt of arcane magic, which incinerated his robe around his left leg. Xarxas extinguished the fire with finesse, sending out a bolt of shadows to the man. He misguided the bolt back at Xarxas, who let it hit freely. His ripped open area of the chest slightly healed, gaining scar tissue around the bloodied hole. Xarxas chuckled. “You forgot that shadow magic doesn’t hurt shadow magic.” He sent out his staff, which emitted a wicked red glow. It choked Aethen, who slowly was raised in the air. “You’ll be a fine addition to my pile of corpses!” His soul suddenly was torn out of his body and flew into the staff. He fell to the ground. Eventually, Xarxas moved back to the group, seeing Kel’Thuzad finish summoning the great demon Archimonde. He stepped back. He was as big as two towers of Dalaran, if not bigger. He stomped out of the city. The entire army was ordered to relocate; Xarxas channeled an arcane spell and vanished to the forests, mounting his horse and riding to the tower that was assaulted. “Hello again!” The group was mildly irritated by Xarxas’ ravaged look. “I see you conquered the tower. Did you get the artifact?” Garm’argal explained the situation: “No. It has a defending mechanism of sorts. Touching it will incinerate you.” Xarxas snorted. “Lovely. Let’s see it.” He followed the group to the basement, finding a gagged archmage. He grinned. “Good that you restrained at least one of them.” The mage whimpered. Seconds later, he was impaled by his staff and the soul was moved to his soul gem. “Hmm, interesting.” He started to channel arcane magic before the orb vanished in a great blue glow. “Right. That’s done. Let’s return to camp.” The group returned to the camp, and Xarxas returned to his hall. Category:Scourge Category:Undead Category:Necromancer Category:Human Category:Lordaeron Category:Mage Category:Kirin Tor Category:Deceased